


something under my skin (your heartbeat)

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Requited Unrequited Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28595250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: After a long, hot day in the newly-united Seven Kingdoms, Queen Daenerys takes her Lord Commander and forces him to open his eyes.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 16
Kudos: 40





	something under my skin (your heartbeat)

**Author's Note:**

> 2021 is the year for completely self-indulgent fic writing so here ya go  
> also this is show!jorah. we don't acknowledge book!jorah

Summer had returned to Westeros with an incredible speed after the Long Night and it was because of this that the maesters said caused the day to be so unfathomably hot.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the first of her name, is perfectly comfortably in the heat simmering and congealing around their ankles. She has kept her council meeting inside, away from the dusty terraces where no breezes blow and alleviate the heat, yet still members began to wilt quickly and those who have been with her through the baking climes of Essos look on and nod indulgently. At Tyrion’s (who is perfectly accustomed to such weather, he just makes sport of griping) next barbed comment, Daenerys has to quickly break eye contact with Missandei before they both burst into fits of giggles.

Wouldn’t do to inflate her Hand’s ego.

-

The moon is just beginning to escape the sunset’s skirts when she pushes her chair back, stood and firmly announces that the council session is at an end for the day. No one protests when she sweeps from the room flanked by Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah on either side.

Away from the stifling underground chamber she asks, “Were the people of Wendwater receptive to my cause, Ser Jorah?” Her Queen’s Guard had arrived to the council meeting when it was already nearly done and she would not speak aloud how worried and distracted she had been until the point of seeing him again, in fear a rebel had killed him or threatened her entire reign.

Through marbled arches and out into the night sky, a wayward corner of her heart longs to see the Dothraki constellations sprawled above her again, before she forces herself with the willpower of a queen to focus on his report.

Unrest had calmed and the rough waters of the Wendwater men’s pride had been soothed- all were happy to reap the benefits this new Targaryen rule were to bring. Daenerys hears all of this and nods. So why, then, is there still an anxious pit of worms in her gut?

On the pretence of stopping to admire the little stream flowing through the courtyard, she examines her Lord Commander closely, meeting Ser Barristan’s gaze behind his back and seeing her own concern reflected in his face. “Is there anything else to report?” she asks instead of what she really wishes to.

Jorah looks up from where he had been surveying the Unsullied, training on top of the battlements unaffected by the heat. There are lines of age in his face she can’t remember seeing there the day before last when he departed. “No, Your Grace,” he replies evenly. Not ‘ _khaleesi.’_ She fights to conceal a frown, her brows creasing with concern.

But she is a Queen and he her Lord Commander and she a Targaryen at that. She lifts her head, walks, and they follow. At her left shoulder she can hear the softest of wheezes on the tail end of each inhale and slows her pace, knowing he will not appreciate his weakness being commented on, even if t’were just the two of them here. Leading them up the stairs and down the long walkway, she nods to the two Unsullied guarding the door at the end to open it in preparation. As she sweeps down across the hot flagstones, it suddenly occurs as to _what_ , exactly, is wrong.

They are not in step.

Trivial had it would have sound, it is the very heart of the problem: they are not walking in step with one another. From the first tentative horse ride together in the oceans of grass up until the day before last when she requested he mitigate the brewing storm in the south, they have fallen into rhythm with one another like music. It is entirely possible the ice-cold fear in her heart now surpasses what she had experienced during the Long Night, eight months ago.

Ser Barristan catches her eye as they cross the threshold and turned to go up the narrow staircase toward the section of the Keep where the living quarters are now located, nodding subtly once to indicate he understands the problem. He cannot offer any solution.

Humming in displeasure, she lengthens her stride and overtakes both of them, only to stop and pivot abruptly at the doors to her quarters, another pair of Unsullied standing guard with spears in hand. Both of her knights halt obediently, as if the display of bad temper is perfectly normal; waiting to be dismissed from her company for the evening. Daenerys grants one of them his wish, inclining her head and murmuring a soft, “Good Evening, Ser Barristan.” She turns her eyes on Ser Jorah, who deflects everything in her gaze back to her with a practised calm.

More clouds floated over his expression as he realises she requires his company a lot longer. “Khaleesi,” he begins roughly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

She doesn't give him time to perfect an excuse. “Ser Jorah there are things we must discuss at length. Please, follow me.”

She turns. He follows. As she knew he would. (And always will.)

*

Inside her rooms, she sits on a soft chaise longue and stretches her legs out in front of her; gives him a smile that relaxes him infinitesimally, then waits for him to relax enough to look away from her before she states: “Something is wrong.”

Jorah raises his eyebrows and his forehead furrows with concern, “Khaleesi?”

Nothing in this world will stop him from serving her, except her command. The revelation is by no means new, yet it still swoops her breath away as if she is riding her dragons for the first time. With a tilt of her head, she draws him several steps closer. “What’s wrong?”

He looks down before replying, “Nothing to be concerned over, Khaleesi.”

“That wasn’t my question, Ser,” worry roars up before she is able to quell it. “Are you ill?”

“…No. Not-“

The words stop abruptly, as if he’s said too much. Perhaps he has. An expression crosses over his face that she can’t read and she feels adrift and terrifyingly alone. “Then what is it?”

He lowers his head and she holds onto her next exhale. If he wishes to leave, she will have to allow it. If he wishes to marry, she will have to consider all the political ramifications. If he wishes to tell her of some new rebellion brewing in Wendwater, she will ride her dragons and smite it out before nightfall, all her anger transformed into flames. If- If- she holds all emotion back from her face and waits. Like a Queen.

“There is,” his eyes move round the room and land nowhere on her as he shifts from one foot to the other. Perhaps, though Daenerys can’t be sure, he is even more uncomfortable now than when she banished him in Mereen. “Greyscale means hot days are less… _comfortable_ , than they used to be.”

She frowns, thinking she possibly understands but still needing to ask “What do you mean?”

He hesitates. Jorah... hesitates. The space between sentences is a mile long and lets her heart begin to knit back together. _Perhaps he does not wish to leave after all_. “The heat… clothes and armour tend to… chafe.”

She holds back a pithy _is that all_ and instead: “Show me.”

Is that- yes. Jorah Mormont is actually blushing, a hint of dusty pink shadowimg his face. “Khaleesi, I don’t think-“

“Show. Me.”

With a sigh half a wheeze, Jorah Mormont takes his hand from the hilt of his sword and pushes the sleeve of his thin tunic up to the elbow. Daenerys lets out a gasp of horror and realises she is suddenly standing and barely inches away from him, head bowed until she can examine in utmost detail, eyes an inch away from his skin. He misinterprets her horror and starts to pull away; she entwines their fingers first, mindful she does not want to touch the reddened, oozing skin that must smart and sting as horrid as a burn. The sleeve hem pulls up higher and reveals more damage, scars cracked and enflamed and looking as deep as canyons on his skin; chafed raw. The pale undershirt doesn’t pull away smoothly, sticking in some places with dark patches of blood staining through as she takes his elbow and turns the limb this way and that under the light of the candles.

He is stiff under her fingers- she blushes at the thought, glad of her long silver tresses to hide her face. It’s now she realises she has never seen the extent of it, having never seen him out of his armour since his arrival on Dragonstone. Not even after the Long Night- well, _then_ he had been covered with bandages and bed clothes.

Schooling her features into her most regal coolness, she tugs at his sleeve, “Show me all of it, Ser.”

And finally, he comes to life again, startled and blushing harder. “Your Grace, I cannot-“

She fixes him with a _look_. He wilts, like a flower. “You will show me, Ser, or I will undress you myself.”

 _That_ gets a further blush, the same colour as a rose in bloom; more stuttering and yet he complies. (He always does, doesn’t he?) it takes every ounce of queenliness she has not to turn her head away when she sees, tears springing to her eyes before his tunic is even fully off. Underneath the battle scars, what’s left of the greyscale smells of copper and looks just as red. On as close inspection as she dares, she sees his skin is rubbed completely raw and it covers almost the entirety of his upper body and left arm and makes some territory onto his right. His back is the worst of it, though- the scarring isn’t so prolific, here, mostly confined to the expanse below his shoulder and above the small of his back, yet what of it there is is wet and open, looking worse than burnt.

She tries to imagine how that must have felt, all day, even the thinnest of layers rubbing constantly and pouring sweat making open wounds sting. The thought has her turning on her heel and calling for a bath- _lukewarm_ , she specifies, and the maid raises her eyebrows but says nothing and curtsies away.

Jorah looks pained when she turns back to him. "Khaleesi, there's no need to-"

" _I_ will make that decision." He bows his head, and _waits_ , staring at the flagstones the entire time. 

When the bath is drawn to her satisfaction, she tries to spare his dignity and looks away as he undresses fully and painfully clambers in. Each movement brings a bitten-back hiss he can't quite disguise and Daenerys has to close her eyes for a moment- only for but a moment, only for the barest second- to regain her composure. His service and the life he has dedicated to her is scored upon his skin for her to see and is she damned, if she can find no pleasure in it?

-

Once the ripples of the water have faded away, Daenerys Targaryen, First of her name, turns round and observes her knight as naked as his name day in her own bath tub. She giggles- he looks utterly the disgruntled bear, hair mussed from pulling his clothes over his head. Not that she'll tell him, of course. 

When he looks at her, she does her best to look disgruntled in her own right, marching primly to the edge of the carpet and raising an eyebrow. _Do you not feel better already, Ser?_

A long-suffering sigh, accompanied by a _look_. _I suppose, Khaleesi_. 

Dany leans over him and sniffs the array of bottles she asked Tarly to send. The first is heavy with peppermint, thick white the same as milk of the poppy. The next the faintest whiff of lavender at odds with its creamy yellow syrup. None of them have labels she can make any sense out of, so she picks the one she deems most appropriate (the seventh bottle, a concoction thicker than molasses or honey, a smell she can only identify as 'green' and the colour of the ground two days after it has snowed) and with ginger, tender movements dips the corner of a cloth into it, then presses the fabric to the worst of his back. 

Jorah yelps, lurching forward almost hard enough to slosh the water onto to floor. Startled, she drops the cloth and backs away only to fall undignified and ungainly onto her backside, watching her bear with fretful eyes. 

"I'm sorry," they begin at the same time, then stop. She gets the sense they are feeling one another out: circling one another like vultures not daring to dart out to safety and move closer to the fray. It's one of those moments that freezes with a piercing clarity and expands forever as the realisation blooms in her mind, "You are afraid." And it isn't a question.

He bows his head so low she can see his breath make ripples on the bathwater and that is answer enough. This fact should terrify her- certainly it did all those moons ago, during the Long Night when she realised he feared she would not live. Now, a calm settles over her. She sinks her hand up to the elbow in the tub and takes up the cloth again, reapplies the ointment, holds him still by putting a hand to his bare shoulder, and begins again. 

"Khaleesi..."

" _Jorah_." It is harsh though she did not intend as such- only for him to stop torturing himself with a feeling she has had revelations over. "I just cannot understand you, Ser. Men in your position would rejoice in this. What is it about me that frightens you?"

Her words have the opposite effect to what she intended and he stills, choking on an exhale that sounds suspiciously broken. She wonders what it _means. "You_ do not frighten me, Khaleesi. _"_

"Then what is it?"

"I would- I would-" he swallows and she wants nothing more than to lean over and wipe the dejection from his brow. 

She takes pity on him, "Are you afraid of your own feelings?"

"No. I only fear hope will be the undoing of me... Once an ember is fanned, it is quick to turn into a fire impossible to control."

Faster than a beat of Drogon's wings she is at the other side of the tub, face to face with her Lord Commander and his careworn face. "What if your hope is my first drop of joy after a long drought?"

 _Oh_ his mouth moves and forms the word soundlessly. He looks like a man who is being flooded with awe, yet even _now_ he scarcely dares to touch her, hands remaining clenched firmly at his sides like she is forbidden. 

Daenerys Targaryen does what her knight cannot, leaning forward and kissing him. He gasps in surprise and she uses it as means to deepen the kiss. 'Oh' indeed! 

Finally- finally- _finally_ his hands come up to grasp her waist, to steady her as their passion and position grows bolder. The touch of his hands feels like home. 

-

"Oh!" the exclamation, softly uttered, wrenches them apart. Dany blinks sunbursts out of her eyes. 

Missandei stands at the door to her chambers, a gentle smile spreading sheepishly over her face. "Your Grace," she curtsies. "Ser Jorah. I apologise for disturbing you, 'tis no matter that will not wait until morning."

"Missandei-" she begins as her friend turns to go. She turns back, still smiling. Dany relaxes, nods, "Have a nice evening."

"And you, Your Grace." Finally- _finally_ the door is shut once again. 

She feared Jorah might have used the time of the interruption to retreat back into his armour- emotionally, if not physically- but under the renewed touch of her hand he is still an open book for her to read at leisure and whim. All the pages and lines of his face speak of love, so much love she has to kiss him before it brings tears to her eyes. He kisses her back at once.

They break apart only when they need air; if she didn't need to concern herself with breathing she would never remove her mouth from his again.

" _Khaleesi_ ," he breathes, resting their foreheads together, the breath of the word ghosting over her skin. 

She clasps her hands at the back of his neck and breathes out in relief and it turns into a laugh she feels no need to conceal. "It's alright," she gasps, joyously. "It's alright now."


End file.
